


A Premonitional Ode To 2020

by flyingthesky



Series: Banned Together 2020 [2]
Category: Re: Your Brains - Jonathan Coulton (Song)
Genre: (it is tagged major character death), (it's about the zombie apocalypse), Crack Treated Seriously, Diplomacy, Gen, Guns, Kind of a downer, Shopping Malls, Zombie Apocalypse, implied animal death, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28471269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingthesky/pseuds/flyingthesky
Summary: In which I wrote five thousand words of zombie diplomacy in 2010 and it feels extremely appropriate to revise it and post it to see 2020 out the door.
Series: Banned Together 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1760965
Kudos: 1
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	A Premonitional Ode To 2020

**Author's Note:**

> for my "walking dead" square at [banned together bingo](https://bannedtogetherbingo2020.tumblr.com/). occasionally, you must stumble upon decade-old writing you've never posted before buried deep in your folders upon folders of fic and spend several hours revising it because it feels oddly appropriate.

When Tom wakes up and checks outside for anything suspicious, like he does every morning, there’s zombies outside the mall. This isn’t unusual. They can’t get in—Tom secured all the doors and windows when he first arrived. Zombies aren’t very strong or smart, so Tom feels safe where he is, but Tom keeps an eye on them all the same. The zombies don’t worry him yet—one of them has a megaphone which is new—but Tom’s learned zombies mean looks are deceiving.

The zombie with the microphone is talking into it. Obviously he’s talking to Tom since there isn’t anyone else in the mall. Not that the zombies know that, necessarily.

“Hey Tom,” the zombie with the megaphone says, “it’s me again, Bob—you know, from the office? It’s good to see you, buddy! How have you been?”

Tom says nothing. It’s not like they could hear him even if he did—zombies have garbage hearing (he knows this partly from experience) and he’s behind shatterproof glass. He _assumes_ it’s shatterproof glass. He’s never thought about it. He can hear the zombie with the megaphone, though. It might have been Bob at one point, but it’s a zombie now. Zombies are zombies—which is why his life has been a total trashfire lately. Turns out having a Zombie Apocalypse Plan doesn’t help in an actual Zombie Apocalypse. Some zombies might have breasts or whatever, but mostly they’re the same and Tom wouldn’t want to date a zombie-girl anyway because seriously? That’s just gross.

He draws the line at zombies, because girls that don’t have faces aren’t girls Tom would be into even if it weren’t a Zombie Apocalypse. Slim pickings and all, given the circumstances, but he still has standards. Besides, all zombies want to do is eat your brains—which wouldn’t be bad, except Tom is pretty fond of his brains. He’d like to keep them inside his head, thanks.

“Things have been pretty okay for me.” The zombie with the microphone continues talking without waiting for Tom’s answer. Not surprising. Turning into a zombie means the rules and norms of society don’t apply to you. Or, in other words, being a zombie means you’re a jerk. “Except for the fact that, you know, I’m a zombie now. Being a zombie isn’t that bad though! Don’t believe the lies you’ve heard about it. Anyway, I really just wish you’d let us in, I think I speak for all the zombies when I say that we understand why you’re apprehensive about complying with zombie demands.”

When the Zombie Apocalypse first started, Tom thought it would be epic and cool—like _Zombieland_ , or _Evil Dead: Army of Darkness_ or _World War Z_ —but no. Zombies aren’t cool at all. They don’t sing or dance or do geometry. They aren’t as ugly as media made them either. Apparently undead corpses only get gross after a couple of months, so zombies look pretty normal for the first couple of months. Zombies aren’t slow, creepy, ambling creatures that slowly decay while wanting to eat everyone’s flesh.

No, zombies were pretty much just normal people, except decaying and falling apart. Also they smelled dead, but that came with the territory of being undead. If Tom had to pick between being around zombies or nerds at a comic convention, he’d pick the comic convention, but they’d smell the same. At a comic convention he’d get cool swag instead of dying too, which counts for more now than it would’ve before. Sometimes zombies become vegetative and they drooled, but they were still people. The only difference between the average convention goer waiting in line for Hall H at Comic-Con and a zombie is the fact that zombies eat flesh. Same smell, same single-minded focus.

Seeing the giant group of zombies standing in front of the mall makes Tom want to play Thriller on the mall’s PA system, just to see if the zombies start dancing. He wishes they would. This’ll get boring quick otherwise—that’s the part of the Zombie Apocalypse no movie prepared him for: it’s _boring_. You’re having a constant anxiety attack, because something _could_ happen, but 9/10 times nothing _does_ happen. The zombie’s been talking for several minutes, and none of his limbs have fallen off, which is impressive for a zombie. It’s also the most entertaining thing about the situation.

“Here’s an FYI though, Tom: you’re gonna die screaming whether or not you let us in. It would probably be better just to get it over with, don’t you think?”

There’s a piece of poster board and a marker next to Tom. He stole them from the security office and put them next to himself after seeing the zombie hoard, in case of a situation like this. Tom wasn’t a Boy Scout, but he still likes to be prepared. When he was an accountant, in the life he had before he lived in a mall by himself, his attention to detail made him an excellent employee. He looks at it before scribbling a quick, giant _GO AWAY_ across the front in black marker. Tom presses it up against the window he’s sitting in front of and resists the urge to swear at the zombie hoard. They can’t hear him so it’s pointless.

Screw these zombies, thinking he’s just going to back down and let them eat his brains without a fight. Why doesn’t anyone rational get zombified? All the zombies Tom’s met fall on the idiot end of the scale. Or maybe turning into zombies makes them idiots? Whatever. It doesn’t matter either way. Tom won’t back down and let the zombies eat his brain without a fight—he’s going to stay safe in the mall, thank you very much.

“All we want to do is eat your brains, Tom. We’re not unreasonable—I mean, no one’s going to eat your eyes, just your brain. We’ll even share it with the other zombies!”

Is that supposed to make him feel better? Note to self: zombies are terrible at negotiation. Tom flips over the poster board, scrawling _YOU CAN’T HAVE MY BRAINS_ on it before holding it up to the window. He aggressively points at it for good measure. The zombie with the microphone might frown, but it’s hard to tell. Zombies don’t have the same range of expressions live humans do, and sometimes they lose control of their jaw muscles entirely. That’s why some zombies drool—or froth at the mouths, like dogs.

“We seem to be at an impasse.” The zombie sounds exactly like every overworked and tired person during a meeting Tom’s ever heard. The normalcy of it is startling. It almost makes him miss meetings that go on for three hours longer than they need to. “Do you think we should compromise, Tom? Oh, how about this! If you open the doors, we’ll all come inside and eat your brains.”

Okay. So the stereotype of slow, stupid zombies is more accurate than Tom thought. They can’t seriously think this is going to work. All the zombies he’s talked to so far must’ve been articulate zombies. Freshly turned? Before the brainlust overtakes them—or maybe Bob is just a total jerk, whether or not he’s a zombie. Actually, that’s not a bad theory. Either way, Tom points to his sign again because no. He won’t give up his brains because they asked nicely, the zombies can’t have them. Being zombified would suck—being human sucks too in the Zombie Apocalypse, but zombie sucks more than human. Tom’s pretty sure he’s one of the last humans left in Ohio.

Tom doesn’t know for sure. He hasn’t seen another human in at least two weeks, and he can’t exactly leave town, what with the zombies everywhere. That’s asking to get his brains eaten. He’s only one guy with a shotgun meant for hunting deer; he isn’t Ash Williams or anything. Heck, he isn’t even Columbus. He’s just Tom with a shotgun and a mall full of stuff no one cares if he uses or steals because well. They’re all zombies. Zombies don’t need new Xboxes or shoes. They just need brains.

Which doesn’t make sense, because once everyone’s infected there won’t be any food. Zombies will have eaten all the brains and brains aren’t like cabbages. They don’t just sprout randomly from the ground or grow on trees—at least as far as Tom knows. Tom looks down at the zombies outside the mall, because they’ve gotten mysteriously quiet. Quiet zombies are always up to something, in Tom’s experience. They’re talking amongst themselves and seem to have given up on the whole idea of eating his brains—zombies are easily distracted. He’s gotten out of more than one rough situation by distracting the zombies in his way. Tom’s about to cheer (quietly, of course) when zombie-that-might-have-been-Bob holds his megaphone back up.

“I don’t want to nitpick, Tom,” possibly-Bob says, even though prefacing a comment with that means you’re a douchebag who wants to make yourself feel better, “but is this really your plan? Spend your whole life locked inside a mall?”

Damn. He’d been hoping for too much, wishing they’d give up on eating his brains. They’re zombies. They don’t give up on that. Seriously, this whole situation sucks. He’s the last person left in Ohio, and he’s stuck in a deserted mall. A _mall_. At least display beds are comfortable enough, and he’s got all the clothes he could ever want. Plus some he doesn’t—Tom’s discovered ugly as sin clothes live on the clearance rack at Macy’s. The stuff even Goodwill politely refuses. There’s even an employee shower in the mall—Tom figures food service is a demanding job (was a demanding job?) and sometimes workers need to shower, but it’s still weird. Not as weird as constantly smelling like “Forever Sunshine” or “Juniper Breeze” thanks to the selection of completely girly scents available at Bath and Body Works, though. Tom’s used to the smell now, and the zombies don’t care what he smells like—they probably don’t have a very good sense of smell.

Zombies are those complete losers who aren’t _good_ at anything. Sure, he cooks a decent pork chop, but you’ve had better. Okay, he’s not bad at his job, but there’s people way better at it than him. Zombies are like that. They’re not good at running or hearing or speaking or not being completely horrible, but they will rip your brains from your skull and eat them like spaghetti. Or whatever brains resemble—Tom hasn’t eaten brains, so he doesn’t know what they taste or look like. To be perfectly honest, he doesn’t want to find out either. Down below, groaning comes from the horde of zombies. Might-be-Bob keeps talking, and Tom wonders how long before they’re clawing at the front door.

He’s never heard of zombie diplomacy, but there’s a first time for everything. He just hopes this means they _won’t_ bust down the door to the mall.

“Maybe that’s OK for now, but someday you’ll be out of food and guns, and you’ll have to make the call.” Might-be-Bob twitches. It could be a shrug, if Tom’s generous. “I’m not surprised to see you haven’t thought it through enough, Tom. You never had the head for all that bigger picture stuff. But that’s what I do, and I plan on eating you slowly.”

Now might-be-Bob’s crossed over from annoying to creepy and gross. Well, zombies are always creepy and gross, but personal insults? Rude. Thankfully Tom didn’t care about Bob’s opinion before the Zombie Apocalypse, and he still doesn’t. He shudders at the persistence of these zombies, though. Tom’s pretty numb to death by this point, but every once in a while something sticks. It’s hard to be too bothered by impending death when he’s seen zombies do much worse in the name of their precious brains. In any other situation, he’d worry about his new lack of morals. In this one, he thinks he’s justified.

“Braaaaaaains,” the zombies outside chant, “braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaains. We want braaaaaaaaaains.”

Or at least Tom assumes that’s what they’re saying. Frankly, it’s a cacophony of garbled noise that, if Tom felt like being generous, might be words.

“Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaaains,” the zombies groan, “Need braaaaaaaaains. Want braaaaaaaaaains.”

Might-be-Bob quiets the zombie mob and speaks to them, saying things Tom can’t hear and doesn’t care about while making elaborate hand gestures. One of possible-Bob’s arms falls off while gesticulating and a girl-zombie (Tom thinks it’s a girl-zombie, anyway) carefully hands it back and helps him reattach it. Maybe-Bob returns to waving his arms around.

Riveting. Going down to the food court for lunch and ignoring the zombie mob outside seems safe, but the zombies suddenly go quiet. Looking back out, Tom sees them looking at a passing dog. Some of the zombies start ambling toward the dog. Eugh, really? The zombie hoard must be pretty desperate if they’re attacking dogs for food.

What did zombies eat besides brains, anyway? They didn’t... _eat_ people, aside from the brains. At least, not judging by the amount of dead bodies lying around. Tom can see eight or nine from his vantage point on the second floor of the mall—easily identifiable ones, anyway. There’s lumps of stuff Tom supposes could be bodies, but they don’t have distinguishable arms or legs or heads, so Tom can’t tell. He’s... not very hungry anymore, come to think of it.

Tom realizes there’s enough zombies to rush the door and break it down. Maybe—Tom isn’t entirely sure how strong zombies are. Individual zombies aren’t much stronger than a human, but a hoard of them might be. Mythbusters did something about that, didn’t they? Tom’s seen zombies move obstacles out of their way like they’re nothing, but he doesn’t know if that’s a result of whatever the zombie equivalent of adrenaline is or just something they do naturally. He doesn’t know if their strength directly relates to the number of brains they’ve eaten recently or they’re always the same strength. Zombies are, when Tom stops fearing for his life, kind of fascinating.

In any other situation, he’d want to study them. To figure them out. Fearing for his life doesn’t leave a lot of time for anthropological zombie study, which is a shame. Study might fix the situation.

Focus. They’re going to eat his brains, so Tom needs to be vigilant. He watches the zombies have their little meeting together and tightens his grip on the marker unconsciously, not liking the sudden silence in the middle of what he could consider Zombie Diplomacy. It isn’t diplomacy if only one side talks and the other steadfastly refuses to cooperate, but it’s not anything else either, so Tom figures it’s okay to call it Zombie Diplomacy. Absently, as he continues to watch the zombies talk amongst themselves, he wonders if that’ll be a class students take in the zombie-dominated future. Would school exist in the zombie-dominated future or would everything just go to hell in a handbasket? Probably the latter. Zombies don’t seem big on things like education or politics or anything besides the only word some of them could articulate, in Tom’s experience.

“Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaains.” The zombie crowd ignores whatever might-be-Bob is attempting to tell them. Sucks to suck. “Braaaaaaaaaaaains. Braaaaaaaains.”

Tom watches as some zombies come up to the front doors of the mall and start clawing at the smooth glass, bumping into it ineffectively. It’s sort of amusing—like when birds smack into freshly Windex’d windows and squeak down, dazed and confused. Might-be-Bob brings the microphone back up to his mouth and for a second Tom admires his dedication to Zombie Diplomacy. He’s quite the pioneer, which is another point against it being Bob. Alive-Bob couldn’t even come up with a solid marketing plan, let alone something as cutting edge as Zombie Diplomacy.

“I’d like to help you, Tom,” the zombie slurs, like he’s losing control of his jaw, “in any way I can. I sure appreciate the way you’re working with me—I’m not a monster, Tom.”

There’s a long silence. Tom is awestruck at how stupid this zombie is. Even Bob wasn’t this stupid. Tom’s sure now the zombie with the megaphone isn’t Bob at all. He’s just some sort of . . . pseudo-Bob. Impostor-Bob? Bob-impostor.

“Well.” The zombie makes a noise that could, in certain situations mostly having to do with B-rated horror movies and deranged psychos, almost pass for a laugh, “Technically I am.”

Zombies, Tom thinks again, are idiots. Also everything he’s ever learned about zombies from movies and TV is a lie and—if he thought he had any actual chance of surviving the Zombie Apocalypse—he would totally write a book full of awesome insights into how zombies differ from humans and how they seem to operate. Tom’s got opinions about zombies and zombie stuff after being locked in a mall for two months, okay? Sue him for wanting his thoughts to mean something—not that anyone will need them if he’s the last human on Earth. Or in Ohio. Sometimes it feels like he is. He hopes he isn’t.

“Got another meeting, Tom,” the zombie says, which doesn’t make sense to Tom. He doesn’t think zombies have meetings anymore. “Maybe we could wrap this up for now? I know we’ll get to common ground somehow, you’re a reasonable guy.”

While Tom admires the zombie’s dedication to the brand-new field of Zombie Diplomacy, he wishes that they would apply the diplomacy to someone that isn’t him. That must be what potentially-Bob meant by “another meeting.” He’s obviously talking about some poor person also trapped inside a mall that isn’t popular even when the town’s not overrun by zombies. Malls stopped being trendy after Y2K hit after all. Only old people hang out there now, doing laps until they die. Well. Old people and former accountants trying to survive the Zombie Apocalypse.

It’s stupid, but Tom wishes he knew if someone else is stuck in a mall too. If some poor person also wishes they didn’t smell like “Night Blooming Jasmine,” or “Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin,” or “Dancing Water,” or “Dark Kiss,” or any other overly floral and overpowering scent from the available selection of bathing products. They’d be verging on insane from lack of human interaction too, jittery and on alert but unable to do anything relaxing. Reading a book they’d always meant to or playing video games on a console hooked up in the game store? Forget about it. Even taking up art and creating beauty when faced with adversity would be too much. Maybe they’d take up baking. Baking is practical, at least.

Someone else is out there who thinks picking out new clothes to wear every morning is such a hassle when you’ve got eight or nine or twelve different stores to choose from. Someone else who sometimes falls asleep in the video store watching movies about zombies and trying to learn more about them—however futile that project ends up being. Someone else eating a lot of Hot Dog on a Stick and pizza and burgers and pizza from Sbarro and getting a little fat—which is counter-productive in a zombie attack, so they also run ten or fifteen miles every couple of days on the treadmill they hooked up in the department store at the far end of the mall where the zombies are less likely to go without that person knowing.

Tom suddenly feels an inordinate amount of pity for them, even if they’re a figment of his imagination, because he’s slowly concluding his life totally sucks and while he’s not ready to die, he’s barely living. Movies never made surviving seem this lifeless. The Zombie Apocalypse would be a lot easier to handle stuck in the emptiness of the sprawling mall with someone else—preferably a hot girl so they can repopulate the planet together, but Tom isn’t that picky. He’d be okay with a dude too. He’s heteroflexible in case of the apocalypse.

The desire to have someone else around is about companionship, mainly. Tom misses being able to talk to people. He misses the sound of his own voice too, so sometimes he has conversations with himself to stay entertained. Not a point in favor of his own sanity, but it keeps him occupied.

“Meanwhile, I’ll report back to my colleagues who are currently chewing on the doors—sorry about that, actually,” the zombie who Tom is pretty sure is a Bob impostor says. It’s fake cheerful in a way that makes Tom suspicious. He’s heard too many people say things in that tone of voice. “I guess we’ll table this for now. I’m glad to see you take constructive criticism well and thank you for your time, I know we’re all busy as hell what with you hiding away from us in the mall and us having to try and talk you out.”

If zombies were human, that would be it: issue tabled, no more talking. Zombies are, of course, not human. Zombies are people if they were all male teenagers ruled by the whims of their hormones ( _hormones_ , in this case, actually means “need to consume brains”). So, Tom isn’t surprised Bob-impostor continues talking into his microphone after he said they’ve tabled the issue. Zombies are jerks like that.

“And we’ll put this thing to bed,” the Bob-impostor says, still too cheerful for Tom’s liking, “when I finally eat your brains! Go, masses! Break down that door—glass cannot hold us back!”

It’s morbidly fascinating, watching the zombies claw at the door and knowing that his demise is impending. Tom finally knows what “their life flashed before their eyes” means. The zombies won’t break the door down for a while—it’s barricaded with the cart-shops that sell cell phones or hermit crabs or whatever else—so Tom tears his eyes away and gets up slowly. He grabs his shotgun from where it’s propped up next to him and makes sure that there are, in fact, bullets in it. There are.

Walking down to the food court once he’s done checking his gun seems like a good idea. If he’s going to die soon, then he might as well eat before he dies. Tom picks up the last box of ammo from the sporting good store on his way there. There’s no Hot Dog on a Stick left in the food court, but that’s fine. If Tom has to eat another one of those, he’ll puke. He’s been living the _Super Size Me_ life for two months and it’s taking its toll.

As he passes by an exit, Tom briefly wonders if he should just go outside and let the zombies flood the mall looking for him while he’s escaping—but then he remembers there are zombies everywhere and going outside is a Bad Idea, complete with capital letters, because the chances of getting his brains eaten or turned into a zombie increases by approximately four-to-six hundred percent outside. Meaning if Tom stepped outside, he’d almost immediately be descended on by the hordes of zombies that were dying (undying?) to get their hands on his brain. He’s not a risk analyst, but you don’t have to be one to calculate risk in the Zombie Apocalypse.

Yeah, no. Tom’s just going to the food court. He’s gonna make himself some Chick-Fil-A nuggets and eat his last meal to the sounds of about a hundred zombies roaming the mall chanting for brains.

It’s a good thing fast food places at the mall only hire fumbling teenagers, because it makes everything much easier to operate. All Tom has to do is dump the nuggets into the fryer and hit the button that will time it for him so he has perfect, amazing nuggets of delicious, deep-fried, artery-clogging goodness. If Tom had to pick someplace to hide out during another Zombie Apocalypse (or redo his current choices), he wouldn’t pick a mall. They make the food in malls of pure carbs and fat. It gets old fast when it’s the only thing you have to eat. His brains will taste like french fry grease to zombies. Sometimes he feels so full of saturated fat that he’s going to explode from it. It’s gotta be in his brain too. It’s everywhere.

The timer on the fryer dings cheerfully. Tom drains oil off the nuggets before tossing them into a couple of the little paper receptacles they’re supposed to be served in. Because there’s no one to see him being rude or complain about his behavior, he hops up onto the service counter to eat his chicken nuggets. The soda machines are all dry, so Tom is drinking some awful Snapple drink that’s 5% juice, 95% sugar water. It tastes weird with the nuggets, and if Tom could choose his last meal, it wouldn’t be greasy fast-food with awful juice drinks sold to the American public as healthy regardless of the fact that they aren’t. He wouldn’t choose to be eating in an abandoned mall to the sounds of zombies roaming around either.

Beggars can’t be chooser, unfortunately.

“Braaaaaaaaaaaaaaains.” Tom hears the zombie masses chant from outside. Doesn’t sound like they’ve broken into the mall yet. Small victories. “Braaaaaaaaaains. Eat braaaaaaaaaains.”

Tom gorges himself on fast food nuggets and Snapple, wiping his face with a sleeve when he’s done and picking up his shotgun. Tom is a lot of things—bad at seeing the bigger picture, a total expert at _Left 4 Dead_ , possibly the last person left alive in Ohio—but he’s not a coward. He holed up in a mall instead of shooting down zombies, but that’s practical and not cowardly. A guy can only shoot down so many zombies before he bites it, and Tom prefers to stay alive versus going down in a blaze of glory. The smart survive the Zombie Apocalypse and the stupid get zombified.

At least that’s what Tom tells himself to feel better about hiding in a mall. It doesn’t matter now.

Somewhere on the first floor, there’s a loud crash. Tom hears glass shattering, and his grip on the shotgun tightens. Apparently the glass isn’t shatterproof at all. That would be useful information if Tom wasn’t about to die. Louder and more insistent, the zombies flood the mall. Tom can just barely hear Bob-impostor’s psychotic laugh over the sounds of the zombies stampeding into the mall. He thinks it’s a laugh, anyway.

“Search him out! Find Tom and devour his brain! “

“Braaaaaaaains,” the zombie masses respond.

Tom cocks his shotgun and watches as the zombies amble around in the lower level of the mall. None of them see him. They aren’t attempting the elevator or escalator, which is stupid on their part because he’d obviously been on the second floor earlier. There’s no reason to assume he’s where the zombies would find him easily, but hey. Zombies are stupid. That’s rule #1 of the brave new world Tom’s found himself in. The whole Zombie Diplomacy thing only reinforced Tom’s feelings about that. Did they think he’d go down without a fight? He won’t.

A zombie makes for the escalator as Tom lines up the zombie’s head in his sights. He pulls the trigger. Zombie killing looks cooler in the movies—in real life, their heads don’t explode into a mess of guts and gore. Zombies don’t have brains from what Tom can tell. Makes gray matter exploding everywhere out of the question. Instead, the zombie just falls over. Dead. Re-dead? Whatever, the point is the shot attracts the attention of other zombies and Tom picks off a steady stream of them—like an American picking off perfect marching lines of British soldiers, only with a lot less blood and political ideas. Also a better gun.

There’s too many zombies. Tom knew this would happen—he doesn’t have unlimited ammo. He desperately wishes he could just shoot offscreen to reload, but life sucks a lot more than video games. Damn if he won’t try his hardest to beat down an entire horde of zombies, though. They’re falling like dominoes that rise after being knocked down—terrible, self-perpetuating dominoes that he’s never going to win against because he’s out of ammo and there’s still fifty or more zombies coming up the escalator, drooling and making noises that sound more and more incoherent the longer Tom listens. He supposes it’s the price zombies pay for losing control of their jaws, but it doesn’t actually matter.

Nothing matters, because the first zombie’s ambling over, and Tom has no ammo. The zombies are hungry and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it, so he tosses down his shotgun and waits. The zombies move closer and closer, creeping up to him incrementally and, Tom notices in a fit of final absurdity, Bob-impostor isn’t with them. He laughs, the sound as deranged as Bob-impostor’s. His voice harsh and raw with disuse, Tom can only laugh. The absurdity of everything, of the fact his last thoughts are a smug satisfaction that at least the damn Bob-impostor isn’t the one who’s going to eat him, is suddenly so funny that Tom doesn’t even care anymore. The things that happened today would, he thinks, make a pretty entertaining song.

Tom doesn’t care about the zombies advancing on him, arms outstretched and drool dripping from their mouths, because life is absurd. The Zombie Apocalypse is absurd. The zombies closing in are going to eat his brains and maybe turn Tom undead himself, but that’s absurd too. Tom doesn’t scream as zombies reach him, dragging him into a mass of them. He only laughs. It’s entirely goddamn possible isolation’s made him totally crazy, but that’s okay. If Tom turns into a zombie, which he probably will, he’ll be as stupid and brain-focused as the rest of the zombies and then nothing will matter except if he’s eaten brains recently and whether there’s any brains in the vicinity that he can eat.

That’s okay with him. When he’s a zombie, he’ll make sure his victims have cooler deaths than this. Tom’s pretty sure that he won’t try the whole Zombie Diplomacy thing—it doesn’t work and, if Bob-impostor is a sign, all it does is get you killed. That’s why Bob-impostor’s not in this mob of zombies, right? Whatever. The point is, Tom’s already getting killed. He doesn’t want to get killed again if he can help it. Zombies are ripping the flesh from his limbs (apparently they did eat it sometimes, huh) and he’s laughing.

Maybe being completely alone screwed him up more than he initially thought. Maybe that was what pushed him into complete insanity. Maybe he’ll be a crazy zombie who attacks people for no reason. Who knows? Who even cares? No one, because Tom is probably the last human in Ohio. Fitting that he’d go crazy from isolation. He hasn’t spoken to another human in months.

“Braaaaaaaaaaaains” is the last thing he hears before he dies.

Oh well. Humanity was screwed anyway. Tom would’ve starved to death if the Zombie Apocalypse hadn’t got to him first.


End file.
